


Swim with the Current

by harcourt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Consent Issues, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, M/M, Negotiations, background Tony/Pepper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/20763.html?thread=51738395#t51738395">this prompt</a>, in which,</p><p>
  <i>Incubus!Tony has to feed on Clint out of desperation even though Clint's off limits due to his history with Loki and people taking away his self control.</i>
</p><p>It's an accident, and mostly an accident of timing and not thinking ahead, which is practically a team specialty, but Tony is sick with himself, and Steve is furious and worried.</p><p>Clint, on the other hand, has got other priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swim with the Current

The best part, the hungry, inhuman part of Tony thinks, is how sweet Clint is. How soft his mouth is when Tony kisses him, and how warm his hands are on Tony's sides, almost like this was his own idea. He makes little sounds, soft gasps, breaths just a bit too loud. Small hitched noises in his throat. His knees are bent, but apart. One raised and the other left to fall against the blankets, making room for Tony. Letting him press against Clint and press Clint into the mattress. 

He's not pinned. Tony doesn't have nearly the mass or the strength to do that, even without taking Clint's wilier maneuverings into account. What he has is something different. More seductive. More _magic_. He doesn't need to pin Clint, because Clint doesn't want to escape. Because Tony can _make_ Clint not want to escape. Because Tony can be like a drug if he wants to be. 

If he has to be.

They're both clothed, or at least they both still have their pants on. _Tony_ is clothed, in jeans and socks and a t-shirt pulled over long sleeves. Safely encased in layers, even though Clint's down to just his jeans, hard and with his fly undone and rocking up against Tony.

"Shh," Tony whispers at him, voice too rough for anything louder. "It's okay. I don't need that." Just touch is enough, usually, when Pepper's away. Enough of a stopgap to keep him from dying of starvation until she gets back or Tony can get himself to wherever she is. He hadn't meant this. To wear himself out as much as he had, or to end up alone in the tower and desperate, with the team gone and just Clint there with him.

Clint, who's kept largely to himself and the team since Loki and his attempted invasion. Not getting out much, judging by how much energy he has pent up. How responsive he is to Tony, and to Tony's influence, squirming and twisting under him, breath going into a harsh pant.

"Easy, easy," Tony soothes. "Calm down. I just need--a minute more. Maybe two." Just enough to drive the hungry, empty feeling back. Just enough to make his head stop swimming and his chest stop aching. Even with Clint so beautiful and so willing, despite himself. So under Tony's control.

Almost, he thinks about Loki and about having Clint and about how that might have an appeal, but his mind goes skittering away from the idea as soon it starts to take form, and Tony sits up quickly, making distance even though Clint moans complaint at the loss of contact.

"Clint?" Tony tries, suddenly sick, still kneeling between Clint's legs, with Clint sprawled open to accommodate him. "Snap out of it, Barton."

Clint doesn't. Clint moans again and arches his back as he tries to rock against Tony. Hanging out of his jeans, which had been hot two seconds ago, when Tony'd been starving and now seems--not off-putting, but too vulnerable. Or maybe off-putting, but because Tony had sidetracked his brain, the way everyone including Clint had warned him against, because the idea of losing control, of having someone else pull his strings, was terrifying to Clint.

"Come on, Clint." It's harder to get him out of it than it is with Pepper. Partly because Tony's still hungry and doesn't _want_ him out of it, on some level, but also because Clint's not practiced. Doesn't know what's happening. Doesn't know how to shake it off.

"Come on," Tony keeps saying, repeating it as he watches Clint track him with a hazy, almost drugged focus that isn't hot at all, but tests Tony's control anyway. He's still repeating it when Steve gets back and finds them and drags him off Clint and the bed by the back of his shirt.

Tony's never been fucking happier to see him.

\-----

"He's _off limits_ ," Steve yells, pacing in front of the windows of the briefing room he's relocated them to. Furious. Tony can't blame him. "Damn it, Tony. I told you I'd be back as soon as I could. I told you to _wait_."

"I meant to wait," Tony mumbles, for no real reason, other than that it's true. He _had_ meant to. He hadn't meant to harm Clint. It's the _last_ thing he'd want. "Is he okay?"

"Shaken up. I'm not sure how bad yet. You better hope this doesn't send him back to step one, Tony." 

"Oh god," Tony groans. "He was getting better."

"Getting."

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean--It got out of control."

"You can't _get_ out of control," Steve snaps. "Not with Clint."

"Oh, shit," Tony says and repeats, "I'm sorry." He drops his head into his hands, elbows on the edge of the table. The windows are dark behind Steve. The lights drowning out the sparkle of the city, and making Steve's harsh look even harsher. Tony's just as glad to not see it.

"We _said_ not to touch him. _Clint_ asked you not to."

"I know." Every instinctual good feeling about Clint's responses feels awful now. A heavy weight in his gut and a sour feeling in his throat. It feels like he's about to be sick, but that's easy for him. A nice luxury, to wallow in self-serving guilt. He gags anyway and has to swallow the feeling back. 

Steve catches the retch and for a few seconds says nothing, then asks, not much gentler, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Are we--Who's with Clint?"

He's expecting Steve to say Bruce, or Natasha, but Steve shrugs a little helplessly and lets his breath out in sigh. "No one. He wanted to be left alone. I wasn't going to tell him no."

"Should he--?" Tony starts, but it's not his place to question Clint either, so he lets it hang without finishing _be by himself_.

"I'll check on him in a bit."

"Okay. That's good. Well, not _good_ , but--"

"He's not an idiot, Tony. He'll be alright for ten minutes."

Steve's right. Clint's probably getting dressed, or showering. Washing every trace of Tony off him. Every trace of his own arousal too, maybe. Maybe trying to erase the whole night, starting from the moment that Tony had flown him back to the tower, super express, partly because Clint didn't want to wait on SHIELD to take care of injury that needed an icepack and butterfly sutures at worst, but mostly for the fun of it. "Would you--Do you think you could check on him now?"

Steve shifts his weight. Right and then left, like he's about to go, but can't make himself. Tony grinds the heel of one hand into his forehead, where a dull throb is growing into a pounding ache. He hopes Steve's not about to start yelling again.

The door handle squeaks, then clicks, but instead of Steve leaving, someone else comes in. Then Clint says, "Lay off, Cap," and, when Tony looks up, "Hey."

"Clint."

"I wasn't jumping out a window. I just needed--I don't know. A drink." He smirks. It looks sharp and brittle. "Some pants with a zipper that works."

"Sorry." It's a rasp. Tony's throat feels worse than dry. It feels raw, like he's been yelling or is coming down with something nasty.

"I think I did that on my own, actually." Clint looks down at this hands, then glances at Tony. At Steve. "I _think_. It's not that clear. I kind of--"

 _I think I shot some people_ , Tony hears. _A lot of it's not too clear_. He swallows. "Clint."

"It's fine," Clint says, and scratches at his arm. At the bandage covering the injury they'd come back to treat in the first place. "I don't mind."

_He made me want to. I didn't even fight it._

"Oh god," Tony groans. He'd put his face back in his hands, but it's not fair to hide.

"Well," Clint says, wry. "It's not like I want you to _die_."

"I wasn't going to die," Tony says. Not because it's necessarily true, but because he doesn't deserve that absolution. The excuse to hide behind. Clint snorts.

"You could maybe die. At least, that's what I picked up from stuff you said. Stuff Pepper's said. And Steve."

"Steve was coming."

Clint takes a breath, then lets it out without saying anything. Playing with the end of a sleeve. Fidgeting. Tony's making him argue in favor of having his mind and body hijacked, which is another layer of shit to pile on top of what he's already laid on Clint. He hadn't even asked, or given Clint a chance to say _no_. Or cared that Clint had already said no, long before it had ever come up.

"You weren't thinking," Clint says.

"I should have been thinking."

"I wasn't--" Clint looks up and twitches. Just the one small, suppressed flinch. "I wasn't thinking when--"

When he was shooting people for Loki. Tony lets a hand drop to the table. It hits with a bang that's a little too loud. "That's not the same."

Clint shrugs. Switches his attention to Steve. "Glad you made it, though," he says, and grins. "Sorry about the eyeful."

"Not your fault," Steve tells him, and it works better than coming from Tony. From a third party Clint doesn't think he needs to cover for. His answering smile is weak, and lopsided. Just a halfhearted pull at one side of his mouth, brief, then gone.

"I'm okay," Clint says, directing it at where his hands are resting on the table top, palms curving around the edge of it and his thumbs tucked underneath. Like he's holding on. "It wasn't on purpose. You didn't--it wasn't because you thought it would be a good time."

It wasn't _not_ a good time, Tony doesn't say, because hunger could make anything a good time. Had made Clint a _great_ time, until the clawing empty feeling let up enough that Tony's higher brain functions could kick back in and put the brakes on.

"I'm sorry," Clint says. "That--If Loki hadn't--"

"Jesus," Tony swears. Clint glares.

"If you let yourself starve to death because you think that's better than--because you think Loki screwed me up enough that you shriveling up into a raisin or something is the better option--if you guys really think that's what would be _better_ for me, then--"

He's having trouble putting a sentence together. They're all sort of partial. Just the middle bits strung together, and Steve notices too, because he leaves his spot at the window to put his hands on Clint's shoulders to stop him. Squeezing gently until Clint stutters to a halt, still without ever coming to a real end.

"You're not Loki," he adds, finally. Disjointedly wrapping everything up. 

"Okay, one," Tony says, "I won't shrivel into a raisin. That's not what happens."

Clint grins a little, then leans forward, out from under Steve's hands, sliding his arms further onto the table, so his weight is on his elbows and his fingers laced together, just a little. His knuckles on one hand are scraped. "You didn't really do anything. I mean," he shrugs. "I'm fine. We didn't get that far."

"If you ever feel the urge to put an elbow in my face," Tony tells him, "I'll understand."

"You try it again and I might," Clint says, but follows with, "Are you okay now?"

He's far, far from okay. Miles away. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Okay," Clint says. "Problem solved, then. And Steve's here." Clint spins a little in his chair to nod back at him, as if Tony had somehow missed Steve, in his red, white and stars outfit, cowl pushed down to bunch at the back of his neck. "So you can do your thing if you--you know. Still need to."

Tony's not as sure about that. Steve still looks pissed, and there's a good part of Tony that really would rather shrivel into a raisin than suggest Steve do anything for him just now. Or ever again, maybe.

Steve catches his dubious look and sighs. "I don't want you to die either, Tony. And I don't--I'm not saying I think Clint should have let you die."

"I wouldn't have died. You didn't get here that late."

"Or slip into some kind of deprivation coma."

That one's pretty likely, and they all know it. Tony's come close a time or two before, even after he'd let the team in on his other plane of existence magic sex battery issue. "I'm sorry," he says anyway. Again.

Clint scrubs a hand over his face. "I need to sleep," he says, and gets up. "If we're starting this whole thing from the top again. Don't do anything stupid without me."

\-----

Tony sleeps and wakes and stares at his ceiling a while, then rolls onto one side and stares at his walls. He hadn't gotten enough from Clint, and it's sickening to think about, but there's no way around it. The hollow feeling in his chest is growing again and it's funny, because the arc reactor should be taking up most of that empty space.

It's not that hard to see how he could seem monstrous. Is monstrous, maybe. It's not that far a leap from Pepper's sexy weekend, to Steve's teammate with weird refueling needs, to the horror that would take advantage of vulnerable, easy targets. 

As inaccurate a description of Clint as that might be.

He turns over maybe three more times--it would be more if Tony wasn't trying to keep still, to not toss and fidget--before Steve comes in, announcing himself with a soft knock. Just a muffled tap-tap, a second before the door opens. "Tony?"

"Steve."

"You asleep?"

"Yup."

Steve huffs. It's not clear if it's a pity laugh or exasperation, but he comes the rest of the way in and closes the door behind him. "How's Clint?" Tony asks, before Steve can state his own business.

"Still out. It can be kind of draining. Your thing."

"My thing."

"He's alright for now, Tony. He just needs to recharge."

"You check on him?"

"Yeah, I checked on him." Steve comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, and stretches his legs out in front of him. Leans back on his arms. "You didn't ask JARVIS?"

"Nah."

Steve _mm_ -s acknowledgement, but doesn't ask why not. Just stays sitting there, less than an arm's length away. Close enough that Tony could stretch his arm a little and make contact. It's tempting, in an awful, familiar way, but it's an urge still, and not a crushing drive. Nothing some heavy drinking won't take care of. That, or sinking himself into a project downstairs.

"You okay?" Steve asks, after a while, looking at his own bare feet, and where he's digging his toes into the soft depth of Tony's rug. 

"Great."

"I shouldn't have let Clint go back with you."

Tony snorts. "Yeah."

Steve looks at him, a short glance, then away again. "Not like that. I mean, I should have noticed you were in bad shape. I shouldn't have taken as long to come back as I did."

If there's anyone whose fault this _isn't_ , it's Steve. Tony laughs and sits up, hunching over his knees while he considers the curve of Steve's back.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and shrugs. "For how I--Clint's not the only one who'd prefer you didn't die."

They'll have to form that club without him, Tony thinks, but says, "That's nice."

"I mean it. I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah."

"Just--I wish it hadn't been Clint. Who was here."

"Yeah," Tony says again.

"Move over."

He'd like to say no. Or, really, he'd like to be the sort of person who'd have the integrity to say no, but instead he's the sort to give in to the gnawing empty feeling and scoots. Just enough that Steve can turn and swing his legs up onto the bed, so they're sitting side by side. "We knew this could happen," he says.

"But not to Clint." Tony takes a breath and heaves it back out. Runs his hands through his hair. "We said it couldn't happen to Clint."

Steve nods, but otherwise doesn't answer, then gives Tony a sideways look and lifts his arm in clear offer, mouth quirked into a weird little half-smile.

"What?" Tony asks, even though there's nothing ambiguous about what Steve's offering.

"Keep the disasters to a minimum tonight? Because if you die anyway--" Steve lets it hang. Keeps his arm raised until Tony sighs and shifts over.

"I'm not dying." Anymore. Won't be in any real danger of it for a while. He'd rather not think about why that is, but at least contact with Steve is powerful enough to override the images of Clint his brain's been replaying on loop, half out of horror and half out of hunger, everything washing away into pleasant static.

\-----

"So," Clint says, climbing over the back of the couch, holding a large mug in his left hand and wafting coffee smell. "You're up."

Tony gives him a look as he settles in, folding down onto the end of the couch, cross-legged. " _I'm_ up?"

Clint shrugs, mug cradled in both hands now, and slurps.

"Any of that for me?" Tony asks, teasing and mostly out of relief that Clint's still talking to him. That Clint seems alright, outside of looking ruffled and sleepy. Hair a half-mussed mess and the rest of him only half alert.

"Sorry," Clint says. "You've got your thing, I've got this." He takes another sip, without the sound effects this time, and then his face scrunches. "I feel like my brain's only about half in."

"No comment."

Clint smiles and snorts. It's not a real laugh, and Clint's not even making the effort to try for convincing, but Tony appreciates the gesture. Appreciates that Clint stays, sitting with him while he works his way to the bottom of his mug, a sip at a time, even if he keeps an eye on Tony as he does it.

"Steve took care of it," Tony tells him "I'm not going to do anything."

Clint grunts, but then redirects his gaze, settling it on the cushion separating them like he's examining the TV remote and the tangled throw someone had left there and Tony had just shoved over. "So is it Steve's turn to snooze now?"

"He's in the gym. You weren't showing any life signs, so he thought you'd take a while to reanimate."

"Haha."

Tony's not the one should be prickly. Not the one who should _get_ to be prickly, but Clint doesn't seem to mind the standoffishness. Or maybe he prefers the distance. The retreat to banter and indirect commentary. It wouldn't be unusual, considering it's Clint, but after a few moments of silence he asks, "How about with Pepper? Is it as--?" He doesn't finish the question, but he does lift his coffee mug at Tony to clarify.

They've spent too much time together, Tony thinks, because he actually gets Clint's meaning. "Not usually. I try not to get that--" Empty, hungry, dangerous. "Low on charge. And Pepper knows how to. You know. Handle things." He should apologize again, maybe, but that doesn't seem to be what Clint's after, so Tony stops with a shrug and waits while Clint thinks that over.

"It wasn't that bad," he says, finally and into his coffee. Then looks up and adds, "It wasn't that great either, don't get the wrong idea."

It's not clear what wrong idea he means, and Tony's about to say something, when Clint charges ahead with, "You weren't going to--I remember you trying to stop me."

It was Tony's fault he'd been going in the first place. "Clint--"

Clint makes a frustrated noise. "Yeah, yeah. Your sexy wiles. I got it. But--Damn it, that's not what I'm saying Tony."

"I have no idea what you're saying."

"I'm saying you flew me home so I could put an icepack on my head and stitch my arm. I _know_ you. Even--I'm not saying it wasn't fucked up, Tony, but. Just--I mean, the worst part of it is that Steve saw my goods." 

It's not funny, but the way Clint says it and the horrified look he says it with makes Tony laugh anyway.

Clint smiles in response and ducks his head. His ears are pink. Genuinely embarrassed, and Tony feels awful for being the cause of it, but snorts another laugh. A not-quite hysterical burble of sound, that even a hand over his mouth can't keep in.

"Sorry. Sorry, Clint."

"Don't think I won't slap you, Stark." Clint looks up to say it, but doesn't raise his head. Just stays hunched over his mug. It's got to be nearly empty by now, but he's still hanging on to it with both hands. He sounds friendly, though, rather than upset or angry.

"Sorry," Tony repeats anyway.

"He also came in in the middle of things," Clint says, and winces, and even if Tony's glad Steve had, he can see Clint's point. 

"Steve knows how this thing works," he reminds Clint. 

"But I don't. I--" Clint leans sideways to put his mug on the coffee table, then holds his hands open at Tony, like he's showing he's unarmed, then he drops them again. Picks up the remote and turns it over and then over again. Clicks the battery cover with the nail of one thumb. "What if we tried it? On purpose?"

"What if Steve twists my arms off and then murders me with them?" Tony returns. "What the hell, Barton?"

"Contingency plan," Clint explains. "You never mean to crash, but--"

"Oh god, you're going with quinjet metaphors."

"Maybe it's an Iron suit metaphor," Clint snips, but tosses the remote back and drops the attitude a second later. "I'm serious, Tony."

"No."

"Oh come on. I thought I was...tasty." The way Clint says it, it sounds like he means it to be funny, but it comes out flat, fumbling off his tongue.

"Great. Right. Remember _that_ part." Tony starts to put his face in one hand, but Clint flips the remote at him, bouncing it off his arm. A soft impact, not nearly hard enough to hurt. Tony picks it up and tosses it over to an armchair, out of Clint's reach. 

Without anything to fiddle with, Clint goes still. Quiet. Tony's almost sure he's going to loiter for a few minutes, then beat a retreat, but he doesn't, letting the silence stretch on between them while he scowls at the tangled mess of the blanket, eyes tracing the pattern on it, until finally he picks up the edge of it and starts picking at the little twists of a tassel, slowly turning it into a snarl of thread. "You said Pepper had more control," he says, when he's destroyed most of it.

There it is. All of Steve's worries in one little benign seeming sentence. 

"I'm sorry," Tony says, because there's nothing else he can say, and no matter how many times he says it, it's not enough. "Clint, really. It won't happen again. It _won't_." He'd pop the arc reactor out and toss it before he lets it happen again. Before he does that to Clint again.

"I can tell you're thinking something really stupid," Clint tells him. " _Really_ stupid."

"And you, what? Want to _practice_?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "Yeah. What if I do? What if--You know we could get trapped together with less options." Not just because they hadn't thought far enough ahead, post battle, tired and goofy on victory, he means. They could end up in similar straits again, and in places less basically safe than the tower. Someplace where the team might not be so definitely on their way.

"I won't let--"

"What do you think you'd do?" Clint demands, voice rising. "Kill yourself and let me explain it to the team?" His mouth shuts with an angry click, and he takes a hard breath, and then another. Says, bitterly, "Sorry I let Tony die, Cap. Because of being too fucking _damaged_ to--"

"Okay," Tony interrupts.

"I hope you don't mind that I tapped out and just watched him--"

" _Okay_."

"It doesn't even hurt," Clint continues, at lower volume. He sounds a bit rough, like he's been shouting for a long time instead of just raising his voice a little. "With Loki, it--"

"It's not supposed to be like Loki," Tony says, without knowing anything about Loki or what being influenced by the staff had been like. "It's supposed to be good. It's not _supposed to_ hurt."

Clint nods. Solemnly going back to destroying the blanket's tassels, pulling threads apart with his nails. Silent again, and oddly meticulous about the damage he's causing. "You can still not want it," Tony says, to his bowed head. "Clint."

"I know."

"Steve--"

"I don't think Steve gets to decide this, do you? This is between you and me."

But the follow-up murder would be between him and Steve, Tony doesn't say, watching Clint's shoulders slowly hunch up. "Contingency plan, huh?" he asks, finally, keeping his voice low because Clint's looking increasingly like he might spook, even though he's the one pitching the idea.

"Yeah. And," Clint hesitates. Takes a breath. "And it sounds like I can get on top of it. If--"

If there's a way to get more control. If there's a way to not get as lost in Tony's hunger as he had. "You still won't be the one driving," Tony warns. "Ever. You'll work out some toeholds, is more the way it works. I don't want you getting into this with the wrong idea of 'control'."

Clint thinks that over, then nods. "Okay," he says. "That still sounds better than--And, I'm _asking_ you to do this, it's not like--" 

The way Clint's interrupting himself means he's agitated and nervous and Tony reaches and tugs the blanket out of his fingers, making him look up. "If you want to do this, we'll do it," he says. "It's your call. You decide what we do. You'll be in charge of it." It won't be like Loki, Tony means. Or like the night before, with all the decisions out of Clint's hands. "But give it a day or two, okay?"

\-----

Tony expects Clint to change his mind once he's had some time to chill out, wake up all the way, and put more than three minutes of reactionary thought into his brilliant plan to gain control of things that freak him out, but he doesn't. If anything, he gets more stubborn and determined about it.

"You don't have to," he tells Tony, like they're sparring and he's offering a tap-out. There's a definite note of _say uncle_ in it, and in the set of his shoulders. In the way he's standing in front of the door of Tony's room, blocking it in a way that would be threatening if Clint didn't look so tense.

" _You_ don't have to," Tony says back, then switches to a gentler tone to offer, "Are you sure you don't want Steve here? Just in case?" Clint looks doubtful for the first time, so Tony rushes to say, "Nothing's going to happen. I'm set. I had a whole night with--" Pepper. "A whole night. I just meant, if it'll make you feel better."

Clint snorts. "I think Steve's seen enough."

"It's not going to be like that again." Not as obscene, he means. Not as balls-out, literally speaking. Tony'd insisted on letting the others know what was up, in case of disaster, misunderstanding, or both, so it's not like what they're doing is a secret, but Clint shakes his head anyway, acting like it is. 

"I'm not going to lose control this time," Tony tells him.

Clint picks up on the phrasing right away. "I will."

"For five seconds. That's not even enough time for you to tear off your shirt."

Clint takes a shaky breath and nods, even though Clint could probably get a lot done in five seconds. Tony waits. Watches as he makes himself relax and paces a little, to the windows, and back to the door and then to the windows again to peer out at the city, forearm against the glass to cut down on reflection, and his head against his arm. 

"No one can see in," Tony reminds him. "Even if they were hovering right outside in a helicopter. Come on."

"Five seconds," Clint says, like he's bargaining, back still to the room.

"Okay."

It's a waiting game. Tony's played them before, and with people who had less to be anxious about than Clint. A night of wining, dining and being charming isn't likely to help, with Clint, but sitting back against the headboard and letting Clint work out the next move on his own seems to. It takes a while, but eventually Clint turns and leans back with his shoulders against the glass and his arms folded across his chest. After a few more seconds, he drops the defensive stance and shoves his hands in his pockets instead, shifting gears back to awkward and self-conscious. Asks, "What now?"

"It would probably help if you came a bit closer."

That takes a few more minutes, but Clint comes and climbs onto the bed, dropping to his knees on the mattress and bouncing them both. Then he grins, brief but cocksure, and leans back on his arms, facing Tony. "Five seconds," he repeats. "Right?"

"Yup. Lean forward."

Clint does, but he also hides his face in his hands as soon as Tony's touching him, and the gesture is both so childishly evasive and fucking traumatized looking that Tony lifts his hands again. "When you're ready," he says. "And it's not too late to bail if you've changed your mind."

"Just do it, Tony."

"Scoot closer."

Clint peers up, lifting his head just enough to do it, then shuffles over, and then a bit more, until Tony can nudge him into an easier position. One where he can touch Clint without reaching, and where Clint can lean comfortably against him. Clint's stiff at first, then slowly relaxes again. Goes through smaller repetitions of the cycle as Tony settles his hands on him, one in the small of Clint's back and the other at the back of his head.

"Sex mojo," Clint comments, as he lets Tony hold him, close and a little too intimate.

"Mm-hm. Tell me when you're ready."

He's not, for a while, and Tony starts to think Clint's just going to stay there, letting Tony play with his hair and rub his back for the rest of the night, but then he nods and says. "Anytime, Stark."

"Five seconds," Tony reminds him. "It'll be okay. In three. One. Two--"

At three he lets himself press a cheek to the top of Clint's head and _pull_. Not physically, but on Clint, drawing out energy and warmth and a tingling electric feeling. It's what he imagines being plugged into a current might be like, if he were a 'bot. He imagines a battery indicator blinking comfortingly as some core driving part of him fills.

"And five," he whispers, not letting Clint go. "You okay?"

Clint lets out a shaky breath, but doesn't move. Swallows loudly. One of his hands is fisted in Tony's shirt, and Tony can feel him shaking a little. Not badly, but just like he's full of adrenaline that's got nowhere to go. "Clint?"

Clint makes a low sound in his throat, and squirms a little closer. Asks, "Five more?"

"Sure. In a second. Take it easy." He keeps his hands where they are, soothing, waiting for Clint to relax, then says, "Okay. Here we go." This time when he releases, Clint lets out a low moan and buries his face in Tony's shoulder. "Enough?"

"Need a minute."

"As long as you want. It's your show, Barton."

Clint laughs, shaky, then asks, "A bit longer now?"

"Ten seconds?" 

A head shake. Tony waits, fingers playing gently in Clint's hair, still holding him. "Eight?"

Clint releases a puff of warm air against his chest, then nods and wraps one arm around Tony's middle. Releasing his shirt to do it, then grabbing back on. After a second, he brings his other hand up as well, to hold on at Tony's shoulder, bunching his sleeve up and making his shirt pull uncomfortably in the armpit.

"It's okay if you need to stop."

"I'm fine."

He doesn't seem that fine, but Tony had agreed to let him call the shots, and settles in to wait for Clint's go-ahead, making low soothing noises until Clint nods and says. "Go."

This time, Clint stays relaxed at the end. His breath is a bit rough and he's breaking a light sweat, but the arm he has wrapped around Tony is looser, less desperate. More of an embrace than like he's clinging to a life raft. "Think I'm," he pants, "getting the hang of it."

Not likely. Not that fast. Clint's probably just settling to the realization that nothing bad is happening. That Tony has enough control this time to let _Clint_ be in control. 

"Again? Or wait?"

"Wait." Clint lifts his head, but only to reposition it, so now his breathing is tickling Tony's throat. 

"Or stop?" he offers.

"Wait."

Tony's hand has moved lower on Clint's back, shifted when he'd moved so that Tony's practically touching Clint's butt. He adjust it back, trying to be subtle, but Clint snickers a little anyway, low and a little breathless. Like he's just finished a run.

"Don't hyperventilate. You can't make jackass comments if you pass out."

Clint laughs again, and his hand on Tony's shoulder releases, and then his arm slides down, loosely draped. Caught at Tony's elbow. He stays that way through the next round, quiet except for his breathing, then says "I wanna be out of my pants," out of nowhere. "God." Then shivers and says, "Go again."

"Not if you're planning to strip down," Tony tells him, and gives his back a rough rub-thump-rub to get him recentered. He can tell Clint's hard by the way he's moving. The way he can't quite keep his hips still. "Two more, okay, Barton? Then we're done."

Clint nods, a little too frantic, and Tony taps the back of his head with a knuckle. Enough to hurt, a little. "Clint?"

"Okay," Clint mumbles. "Okay. Let's go."

"In a minute. Just relax."

Clint moans, a small, soft sound, but then quiets. He's still shifting a bit, like he wants to be touched or to touch himself, but he's also getting a grip on himself and settling back in. "You okay?" he asks, after a bit, "Tony?"

He's fine. Clint's a comfortable weight, relaxed and willing and calm, and that's a solid cut above the frantic energy caused by Tony being starving and desperate, when he'd barely had the focus to feel _Clint_ in between everything else. He doesn't answer and Clint doesn't push. Just stays put, shifting sometimes, then stilling when Tony tightens his grip a little.

"Ready?"

"On three," Clint agrees, then turns his head and kisses Tony's cheek, and if he wasn't sure it's just some weird Hawkeye impulse, he'd call it quits right there, just in case. "Can we lie down?" Clint asks. "Go longer?"

Tony hums agreement, and slides down, pulling Clint with him, keeping contact. As soon as they're down, Clint rolls up against him, body pressing against Tony's. Cock hard against Tony's hip, even though Clint stays mostly still.

The extra time this round gives Clint the chance to moan twice and bite Tony in the shoulder once, hard enough that it throws his count off. He's not sure if he cuts it too short or to long, but Clint doesn't seem to notice. Just rocks up against him once, then pulls his arms free and rolls away, curling into himself a little.

"Clint?"

"Oh, fuck," he groans. "Damn." It doesn't sounds like a bad _damn_. Clint sounds like he's just gotten off a roller coaster. Or maybe like he's just survived a fall and is giddy with it. There's a laugh in the unsteady way he's breathing, and Tony grins as he sits back up and scoots to lean back the way he'd been before, against the headboard. Fluffing a pillow to keep his hands busy, then shoving it behind his back and fussing with it there.

"Done?"

"Done," Clint agrees, not rolling back.

"You have one more, if you want."

"I'm done."

"Great. I can throw a blanket over you or look the other way if you want to jerk off. Or the bathroom's that way." Clint's not looking, but Tony nods anyway, jerking his head towards the relevant door. "Or I can leave and come back in a bit."

Clint groans. "M'fine."

"Yeah? Great." Tony probably shouldn't touch him any more, but he does, reaching to put a hand on Clint's arm, then letting it rest there. "You okay?"

"Fantastic." And, after a minute, a bit slurred, "Gotta sleep."

Tony hadn't taken enough to wear him out, but Clint's probably crashing from stress and relief as much as energy drain. Maybe a bit from being unused to the feeling. "Want me to stay, leave, or get someone?"

Clint mumbles in response, then makes a low noise, then says, clearer, "Stay. Just--I'm done, okay?"

"Okay. I know." 

"Thanks for--" Clint waves a hand, indicating nothing in particular, then drops it again. It makes a soft _fump_ noise against the bed. Bounces a little, like Clint's elbow joint is made of jelly, loose and without tension. "M'not ready for--Need a couple more rounds before I can--"

Tony huffs. "Just go to sleep, Barton. You don't have to do anything."

"Contingency plan." Clint's curl loosens a little. "Keep workin' on it."

"You don't have to."

"We could--" It's muzzy. Clint's got to be half asleep already. "Trapped in an elevator. Something."

"I think I'd survive the fifteen minutes it would take JARVIS to free us," Tony says, but moves his hand off Clint's shoulder to his head, where he can reach easier and make little calming motions against Clint's scalp. "But sure. We'll work on your contingency plan."

"Can't," Clint starts, then stops and changes it to, "M'not scared of my team," and adds a mumble that sounds like it might be _stupid_.

"Go to sleep, Barton."

"Tell Steve t'shove it."

If they weren't on top of the blankets, Tony would cover Clint with them and see if that lulled him enough to make him shut up and drift the rest of the way off, but there's no way to pull them free without disturbing Clint, and no way to go get another from the closet without breaking contact for longer than Tony's willing. He settles for shifting away and pulling the end over, folding the freed half over Clint, then closes the distance between them again. Letting the outside of one leg press up against Clint's back. "Settle down, tough guy. You can tell Steve where to shove it tomorrow."

"M'not the one," Clint goes on, blinking drowsily, then relaxing again, voice dissolving into a mumble. Tony can make out, "dying" and a garble that might be "perspective", but then Clint's out, body slack under the blanket, still loosely curled on his side.

"Yeah," Tony agrees. "We'll work on it. For emergencies." and ruffles Clint's hair one more time, before making himself comfortable. "Thanks, Barton."


End file.
